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Hearts Beguiled

Page 10

by Penelope Williamson


  The hackney pulled up before an imposing stone building. The driver opened the carriage door and let down the step. Max descended, then lifted Dominique to the ground. He took Gabrielle's arm to help her, and his hand lingered on her waist, guiding her toward the building's arched portals. It was a casual, polite gesture, nothing more, yet she was uncomfortably aware of the feel of his palm resting on the small of her back, the brush of his leg against her skirt, the nearness of his face. Though the sun beat down bright and hot on the stone steps, she shivered.

  The Jardin des Plantes was the center of scientific French studies. Founded over a hundred and fifty years before, it housed laboratories and lecture halls, rooms full of rare collections and greenhouses overgrown with exotic plants. Its botanical groves and gardens stretched for acres down to the Seine.

  As they entered a giant hall, Dominique clapped his hands with delight. Odd-looking anatomical specimens in jars lined the walls. Tables were loaded with sextants and quadrants, crucibles and alembics. A giant armillary sphere dominated the center of the room. Sunlight streamed in from a row of tall arched windows to light even the far back comer, where a skeleton dangled from a rope fastened to a hook in the wall.

  "Look, Maman!" Dominique exclaimed, heading unerringly for the skeleton. "That man has lost all his skin!"

  "Dominique," Gabrielle called out in vain as he raced down the length of the room. "Don't touch anything."

  "I see the boy has gone to make the acquaintance of Old Bones," Max said on a note of amusement that burst into full laughter at Gabrielle's shudder of revulsion.

  The hall was full of men, many of whom greeted Max by name. Several eyed Gabrielle with unabashed curiosity. One man, braver than the others, limped over with the help of a cane, an infectious smile creasing his round, apple-cheeked face.

  "Saint-Just, you devil, so this is what's been keeping you so occupied lately. I might have known!" His chocolate-brown eyes moved appreciatively over Gabrielle, then he bowed with an exaggerated flourish. "Your very devoted servant, mademoiselle."

  Max introduced her as Madame Gabrielle Prion. "Gabrielle, may I present Percival Bonville, a not-so-famous American patriot and the man who proved that lightning is actually electricity . . . and only a mere two months after Benjamin Franklin did it."

  The man laughed heartily. "Unfair, unfair, Saint-Just. I would have beaten old Uncle Ben to it if I hadn't been so preoccupied with, er, other matters."

  He took Gabrielle's hand and placed it on the crook of his arm. "He's brought you here to show off his aerostat, I'll Wager. Come, come, Madame Prion, we might as well feed his conceit by going out there to gape at it with looks of rapturous wonder on our faces."

  Laughing, Gabrielle glanced back over her shoulder at Max as she was pulled toward a pair of doors that opened onto the gardens. "Max, would you—"

  He waved them on. "Go ahead. I'll fetch the boy."

  The gardens were a painter's palette of colors. Beds of flowers and rows of blooming bushes stretched before her like a scrap quilt—too abundant and too vibrant for the eyes to absorb fully. She paused to admire a vivid green bush resplendent with huge white blossoms and a heavy floral aroma.

  She cast a questioning look at Percival Bonville, who brought a handkerchief to his nose. "Don't ask me what species it is," he said, his voice muffled by the cloth. "I know nothing about plants except that the prettier they are the more the blasted things seem to reek like the inside of a bordello."

  Gabrielle laughed gaily, charmed by Max's friend. Though he was not especially good-looking, there was something attractive about the way he spoke, with his drawling American accent.

  She took his arm again and they turned, walking toward the river. The sun blazed down relentlessly; Gabrielle began to wish she hadn't rushed from the shop without bringing her fan.

  "Have you been in France long, Monsieur Bonville?" she asked.

  "Call me Percy. Actually, you know of Benjamin Franklin, no doubt? He's an uncle of mine. I joined up with him here after the war." He tapped his foot with the end of his cane. "That's where I picked up this bum leg. Fighting the blasted English."

  "I've heard of your Monsieur Franklin, of course, though I've never met him," she lied, for the man had once been a frequent habitue at her mother's salon. The niece of a simple pawnshop owner would, on the other hand, have had little opportunity to meet the illustrious Monsieur Franklin.

  The American patriot had come to France several years before to seek French aid for their revolution. He became a popular figure both at Paris and at the court of Versailles and stayed, even after the American war ended. She remembered that the old man had been a bit of a roue and a great admirer of the ladies.

  As if guessing her thoughts, the American smiled slyly and leaned intimately toward her. "Every word you've heard about my uncle is unabashedly true, Madame Prion. Every word. And what's more, it runs in the family."

  They passed through an orchard of citrus trees and into a broad meadow.

  "Oh!" Gabrielle exclaimed, sucking in a sharp breath of wonder. Holding on to her hat, she tilted her head back to look up.

  Strung between two masts by a cable that ran through a ring at its top bobbed a great blue and gold silken balloon. Although only partially inflated, the envelope was already as tall as a five-story building. At its base was a row of casks interconnected with pipes made of tin. A pair of men worked busily around the casks, from which there came a strange bubbling noise.

  Percy chuckled softly. "Magnificent, isn't it? Ah, to sail such a ship through the heavens! Perhaps I can talk Saint-Just into taking me with him. He owes me a favor or two."

  "Have you known Max long?" Gabrielle asked, realizing suddenly that here was someone who could shed light on the mysterious Maximilien de Saint-Just.

  "Long enough to know that his is one of the greatest scientific minds your country possesses. Do you know that in just this year alone he has discovered two new satellites of

  Saturn and the phenomenon of double stars?" He waved a hand at the colorful globe that swayed lazily in the hot breeze. "Not to mention the work he is doing with hydrogen-filled balloons."

  Gabrielle shook her head, surprised and, yes, impressed. Yet she had known from the first that Maximilien de Saint-Just was not at heart the aristocratic dilettante he pretended to be.

  "He could accomplish so much," Percy was saying, "but instead he plays with science and wastes his talents. Not to mention the way he risks his very life by indulging in those dangerous and nefarious games of his. He's like a great galleon being tossed about on a storm-whipped sea." Percy paused and turned to face her. "He needs a safe harbor."

  Gabrielle's chest felt tight, and she couldn't meet the American's eyes. She looked at the balloon instead, wondering what sort of dangerous and nefarious games Maximilien de Saint-Just played at. "I'm not sure I understand."

  Percy shrugged a pair of elegantly clad shoulders. "I'm not sure I do, either. But I do know this. There have been many women in Max's life, but you're the first one he's ever bothered to bring here—"

  "Maman!"

  Max emerged from the orchard with Dominique riding on his shoulders. Her son's fists were wrapped in the man's dark hair; his face was flushed with laughter. He reared back his head and took in the sight of the balloon with eyes as round as carriage wheels.

  "It's big," he stated matter-of-factly, which caused them all to laugh.

  Max set Dominique on the ground and, taking his hand, led him closer to the giant balloon. It seemed to be groaning as it pulled upward against the cables that kept it tethered.

  Gabrielle followed behind a little nervously. "It isn't dangerous, is it?"

  "Nonsense!" Percy admonished.

  Max gave her that beguiling, damn-the-world grin, and Gabrielle felt something tug at her heart.

  "Gabrielle happened to witness one of my rare failures," he said, "and now she won't let me forget it."

  He hunkered down beside Dominique and be
gan to explain how the sealed casks around the base of the balloon were filled with sulfuric acid to which the workers added iron filings to produce the gas that was inflating the envelope. Gabrielle knew Dominique could understand little of what Max said, but his eyes bounced back and forth between Max and the balloon, a look of rapt attention on his face, his pudgy fist clinging securely to the sleeve of Max's coat.

  He needs a father, she thought, and then instantly regretted the foolish, useless yearning.

  She looked up to find Percy Bonville's eyes on hers and was afraid for a moment that she had spoken the thought aloud, for he smiled and nodded knowingly.

  Then he turned abruptly aside and tapped Max's thigh with his cane. "When do you take her aloft, Saint-Just?"

  "She should be fully inflated in another couple of days." Max straightened, brushing dirt off his knees. "It takes at least a week to create enough hydrogen gas by this process," he explained to Gabrielle. "Someday I hope to invent a faster way."

  Dominique grasped Max's hand, swinging himself off the ground. "Take me with you, M'sieur Max. Take me up in that 'stat with you."

  "Not this time. Someday, perhaps. When you're older."

  "Promise?"

  "It's hard to promise things too far ahead." Max searched Gabrielle's face, his own expression unreadable. "It all depends on your maman."

  What was he really saying to her? Unsure, she mumbled, "We'll see."

  Max, his mouth set into a hard line, turned away from her.

  They looked at the balloon in silence—except for Dominique, who raced in a giant circle around it. Then Max suggested they walk back by way of the menagerie so that Dominique could see the animals. "I've arranged for some refreshment under the shade of the peach orchard. You're welcome to join us, Percy."

  "Thank you, but no. Though it hurts my pride to admit it, I think that in this rare instance I would be de trap. " Grinning broadly, he presented them both with another flourishing bow. "Au revoir, madame . . . May the wind be at your back, Saint-Just." He winked conspiratorially at Gabrielle. "And all your harbors be safe."

  Max stared after the American as he limped away. "What was that all about?"

  Gabrielle pretended not to hear. She snatched her son's arm as he raced by. "Really, Dominique!" she scolded. "It's too hot to be dashing about like that."

  ❧

  Gabrielle brought the strawberry, dripping with clotted cream, to her mouth. She tilted her head back, sticking out a pink tongue to lick the cream. Then her lips enveloped the plump fruit, sucking it off the stem.

  Max looked quickly away, bringing his knee up to hide the sudden, uncomfortable swelling in his breeches. He pressed hard against the scratchy bark of the peach tree at his back and reached with a trembling hand for the glass of champagne on the ground beside him. He tossed it back in two swallows, and the golden effervescent liquid burned down his throat.

  "What's the matter?"

  Max looked into a pair of eyes that were as purple as a field of heather. "Nothing," he said, knowing he sounded like a sulky little boy.

  A smile played about her lips, stained red from the berries, and looking just as luscious. He knew how those lips would taste, sweet and full as they moved beneath his. He knew, God, how he knew—

  "You were scowling," she said.

  "I was just . . . thinking."

  "What about?"

  "You. Who are you, Gabrielle?"

  Her eyes flickered away; faint color stained her cheeks.

  She sat cross-legged on the blanket next to him. Bracing himself on one arm, he leaned forward. He cupped her chin in his hand and turned her head, tilting up her face. Sunlight filtered through the leafy bower overhead, dappling shadows on her skin. She was so fair he could see the blue veins pulsing in her forehead, and her hair was a flame, beckoning him. He wanted her, wanted her . . .

  He lowered his head. She exhaled sharply, and he felt her breath, sweet and fruity, against his lips.

  "Gabrielle ..."

  She turned away from him. "Not here."

  "Come to my rooms tonight."

  "No!" She jumped up and began to shove the picnic things into the wicker basket. "We should be going back now. It's getting late."

  Max clenched his jaw to keep from cursing out loud. Had the woman been sent by the gods for the sole purpose of making him pay for his many sins? Never had he wanted anything the way he wanted Gabrielle Prion—or whoever in hell she really was. She was like one of those swamp fevers he'd come across in Le Mississippi, infecting the blood and driving the poor afflicted completely insane. He couldn't seem to stay away from her, yet to be near her was to put himself in a state of tormented agony. The only antidote for the fever was to get her into his bed, except that a part of him already knew that with this particular woman once was not going to be enough. He doubted there were enough hours left in all eternity for him to slake the hunger he felt for Gabrielle . . . Gabrielle . . . Gabrielle . . .

  Damn you to hell and back, Gabrielle.

  Max stood up, glancing toward a nearby hillock where Dominique played at an imaginary game of knights slaying dragons, and felt the bite of a bitter envy. Not of the boy, but of the man who had fathered him. Until now, it had never mattered to Max whether the women he took had lovers before him. Yet he couldn't bear the thought that Gabrielle, his Gabrielle, had known pleasure in another man's arms.

  Especially when she had yet to know pleasure in his.

  He bent over and with a savage gesture snatched the blanket off the ground.

  Dominique came trotting up, breathing heavily, his face flushed. His pockets bulged, dragging his pantaloons down around his hips.

  Gabrielle sighed at the sight of her impossible offspring. "Oh, Dominique . . . what have you got in your pockets now?"

  "More rocks," he said. "For my collection. And this." He put something long and smooth into her hand.

  She stared at it, perplexed. It appeared to be three thin pieces of white ivory strung together with a piece of wire—

  Gabrielle shrieked and flung it away from her. "Jesu and all his saints!"

  Max was instantly at her side. "What's the matter?"

  She pointed at the repulsive object where it lay in the grass. "It's a . . . a finger. "

  Max stooped over and picked it up. He looked at Dominique, who gazed back up at him with round, innocent eyes. "Have you been plucking bits and pieces off Old Bones?" he said, trying to sound stern and failing.

  Gabrielle heard the repressed laughter in Max's voice. "It isn't funny!"

  Max raised his brows at Dominique. The boy giggled and then Max started to laugh.

  Gabrielle looked from one to the other. "Why, you . . . you men. You're all alike!" She whipped around on her heel and stalked up the lawns toward the academy buildings.

  Max and the boy looked at each other and shrugged.

  "Maman is very angry with us," Dominique said.

  "I fear so."

  "Do you think she'll whip us when we get home?"

  Max's lips twitched. "No. But it couldn't hurt to make some sort of reparation."

  "What's a reprashun?"

  "That's when you have to buy something pretty and expensive to get back into a woman's good graces."

  Dominique frowned. "But I haven't any money."

  "No? Well, then we shall have to improvise."

  Max took the boy's hand and led him to a well-tended bed of daffodils and snapdragons. While Max kept an eye out for the groundskeeper, Dominique picked a peace offering.

  "I don't understand why she got so angry," the boy said. "It was only a few old bones."

  Max shared a sigh with Gabrielle's son as they pondered the mystery that was woman.

  ❧

  A woman was also the topic under discussion in the cramped and stuffy office of the minister of police deep within the cavernous Palais de Justice.

  Abel Hachette sat on a creaking chair, pretending indifference to the sweat that trickled down his pale cheek
s. The minister of the Paris police was not bothering to pretend. He sat behind his desk across from Hachette, mopping his brow with a sopping, ragged handkerchief.

  "Merde, but it's hot today," the minister said.

  Hachette acknowledged that it was, indeed, rather warm. It was the third time the minister had mentioned the weather. They had been carefully skirting the real reason for Hachette's visit for a half hour now, like a pair of wolves around a staked-out hen, hungry but still too cautious to plunge in for the attack and risk springing the trap.

  The minister cleared his throat. "You say this friend of yours—"

  "I wouldn't precisely call him a friend. More of a business acquaintance. But he's an Englishman, a visitor to our country. I thought it would hardly do for—"

  "Quite, quite. I see your point. It is fort mauvais to have visitors, particularly Englishmen, fleeced by our local harlots, eh?" The minister smiled and winked.

  When Hachette neither smiled nor winked back, the minister sobered and straightened behind his desk, drawing a piece of paper toward him. He reached for his pen.

  The paper stuck to his sweaty palm and he growled an oath under his breath. "You say this Englishman met, uh, the young mademoiselle in a cafe on the Rue de Rivoli and took her back to his lodgings where he, uh, consummated the arranged transaction. Afterward, he claims, the mademoiselle went through his pockets while he, uh, rested."

  Hachette nodded. "Yes. Stole all his money and a valuable gold watch and fob."

  "Cleaned him out in more ways than one, eh?" The minister started to guffaw, but stopped at the look on Hachette's face. "Yes, well . . . There are a lot of whores in Paris, monsieur."

  "But not so many who are beautiful, with red-gold hair and violet eyes."

  The minister nibbled on the end of his pen. "Red-gold hair . . . Still, Paris is a big city. Is there anything else you can tell me about the wench? Her, uh, name perhaps?" His eyes, unable to meet Hachette's, flickered to the window, streaked with grime and partially hidden behind a splintering crate crammed with records.

  Hachette watched the minister's face. "It probably means nothing, but she asked him to call her Gabrielle."

 

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